An Alternative Solution
by MentallyDysfunctional
Summary: What if, instead of Vader, another alternative solution accompanied Tarkin to Lothal? Namely another Imperial Inquisitor, who once went by the name of Barriss Offee. Divergent from canon as of Late Season I. Additional chapters incoming.
1. Merry Meetings

The dying light of the sun drifted through the broad office window of Maketh Tua, a senior minister of the Imperial government of Lothal. She sat at her desk, swiping through the reports on her datapad. Rioting and unrest had erupted planetwide in the cycles following the incident at the main planetary broadcast facility. The statistics before her told a grim tale. Property damage, injuries, fatalities, public trust in the planetary government irrevocably shaken. She paused on an image of one of the most brutal incidents, taken by a surveillance droid: stormtroopers firing into a crowd. It dredged up memories of a day when she learned very intimately the price of failure. A flash of scarlet light, the smell…

She fumbled with a small iridium case, fishing it from a tunic pocket. The latch popped, two pinches between gloved fingers, two sharp inhales through the nose. An old and refined Core world habit; a fine blend of fragrant, stimulant herbs, laced very, _very_ lightly, with glitterstim. The stench of seared fabric and flesh was gone again. The room seemed brighter, as if a cloud lifted from her mind. She smiled in relief, almost by reflex. The scent brought back memories, all those late nights before Academy exams, and more than a few obscenely boring cocktail parties. She went to snap the case shut, before eyeing the contents. Odd. The case was emptier than she remembered. She would have to speak with that gentleman in Customs on arranging another order. Her thoughts were interrupted as the intercom chimed on her desk.

'Minister, there is a visitor here to see you.'

The irritation was palpable as she pressed the transmit stud.

'I am occupied. Open office hours are from 1300 to 1600, Jaina, you know this. They are more than welcome to come back to-'

She almost dropped the case. The office door opened, and a shadow slid into the room. Clad head to toe in black, mantle trailing behind like smoke, there was a mechanical grace in her movements as polished boots clicked on the tiled floor. The only trace of colour was her face, alien flesh rendered in a pale, almost sickly shade of green, her aqualine features offset by strange, geometric tattoos. Her short hair may have been a lustrous black once; the silver that now shimmered within stood out on a woman in her prime. This was the new Inquisitor, another of the creatures on Tarkin's leash. She wore that same icy smile she had shown the day she arrived, so full of affected sincerity.

'Good afternoon, Minister.'

The voice was melodious, with all the kindness of a vibroblade. Tua hid her surprise quite well, or she she believed, rising to her feet and straightening her tunic in one fluid motion.

'Good afternoon, Inquisitor! My apologies, I had no idea-'

'Its quite alright Minister. I understand you are exceptionally busy. The Empire is fortunate to have such diligent servants.'

The flattery awakened the politician in Tua.

'To what do I owe the honour of this unexpected pleasantry?'

'I thought I would take the time for us to become better acquainted. My arrival with the Governor left little time for proper introductions.'

'Of course. Could I offer you anything?'

Her guest cast an eye to the small table aside the door, bedecked with several decanters and a bouquet of lilies. She nodded to a dark red Alderranian, easily the most expensive vintage on the table. Tua smiled and moved to pour. She could plainly see the game. This Inquisitor, like the last, would have what she desired without question, no matter the cost.

As the wine flowed into crystal, she wondered, silently, why the Empire took to using nonhumans for its agents. The first had been Utapaun, she had checked her files. This one was…Miralian? A great many of the Separatists had been nonhumans, along with the most corrupt senators of the Republic. It seemed almost counter-intuitive to trust them too greatly. It had to be politics. A nonhuman would have no friends, no patrons or favours within the Imperial bureaucracy. There could be no chance of nepotism or corruption. These Inquisitors would have to be unquestionably loyal to the New Order, otherwise they would fall very hard indeed.

A full glass in each hand, Tua turned to her guest, who accepted one with the slightest nod. The Miralian ran the glass beneath her nose, contented, and without a word, turned to the broad window that framed the minister's desk. They sipped deep, together in silence. The game again. The Inquisitor was making her wait.

Tua could not stand the quiet.

'Have you known Governor Tarkin long?'

It was a stupid question. A beat passed, and a side glance; that grin again.

'The governor and I have known one another for a _very_ long time.'

Tua buried her unease in her wine.

'You've worked closely, then?'

'I can easily say I would not be standing here today without his efforts, Minister'

The Inquisitor drank deep, her eyes distant. The drought glistened red on her lips.

'He is, after all, one of the Emperor's foremost servants. His methods can be most persuasive.'

She turned from the window.

'However, you will find we bring different dishes to the table. The governor is an exceptionally direct man, and does not suffer fools, or failure, lightly. You will find he is not as forgiving as I am.'

Tua fidgeted.

'Yes, well, we must all be forthright in our duty…'

'As was the previous Inquisitor who was assigned to Lothal. He too was exceptionally direct, even theatrical. He paid the price for his methods.'

Another sip. Again the room clicked as she paced.

'I possess a certain perspective that my predecessor lacked. In the task of hunting down and removing enemies of the Empire he was without peer, but this situation requires a more delicate touch. There are some difficulties that cannot be solved with a lightsaber. Sabotage, dissension, acts of terrorism…I have a very _personal_ understanding in dealing with these matters….'

She swirled the wine, her gaze distant for a moment, pensive. Then she returned to the present, and locked sharp, dark eyes with Tua's own.

'I am here to _heal_ Lothal, Minister. The citizens of this world require the balm of the Empire's security to soothe their fears and misconceptions. One cannot deliver that reassurance with the boot and the blaster. We will show these 'rebels' for what they really are: criminals, thieves, warmongers. I want the people to know the truth. These insurgents represent a recurrence of all the worst symptoms of the Old Republic, of corruption and selfishness. They are an infection that has taken root on Lothal, and make no mistake, I will_ cut out_ that infection, if necessary.'

The wine was served warm. That voice could have easily chilled it.

'Do you know what I treasure the most about our Empire?'

Tua awaited the rhetorical answer. The Miralian turned back to the window, bathing in a sunset gone deep crimson.

'Order, stability…peace. Not so long ago our galaxy was plunged, by the greed of a few, into a conflict so cataclysmic and terrible that it has yet to fully recover. I will not allow history to repeat itself. I will not allow infiltration and indoctrination by these criminals playing at hero to jeopardize all that we have accomplished. There is no rebellion on Lothal. Only sickness. Only weakness. And Lothal shall be cured.'

The Inquisitor turned to the Minister, her glass raised.

'To peace.'

It was not a suggestion.

'To peace.' Tua echoed.

They drank. It was a bitter wine.


	2. Plots Have I Laid

The hall echoed his pace as Agent Kallus, ISB-021, passed through the hive that was the headquarters for the security of the New Order on Lothal. He too, held a datapad in hand, tirelessly absorbing the outcomes of the recent cycles. He was not one to sit still; time was precious, and recent events demanded he make use of every moment. A finely honed situational awareness allowed him to dodge the torrent of cadets, troopers and mouse droids even as he absorbed the intel before him. What he saw did not bode well. This was meant to be a simple assignment, almost a holiday, compared to the planetary pacification campaigns on which he had spent several previous long standard years. Now this 'blue milk run' was turning into a fiasco. If he could not pacify this ongoing unrest, it could have dire consequences for Lothal...and himself.

He turned a corner, and found his his office door. The right security code, and the armoured panel slid upward. He had barely taken a step inside before his senses told him something was wrong. The lights failed to activate. The only illumination came from the window at the far end of the room, a translucent canopy along the bulkhead behind his desk. A shadow leered there, cloak tumbling like the wings of some nocturnal fiend.

The harpy spoke.

'Good evening, Agent Kallus.'

'Inquisitor.'

He was inured to this sort of theatricality. The previous Inquisitor had been insufferable enough. Now the Galaxy had given him another; clearly no good deed went unpunished.

'I do hope you'll pardon the intrusion.'

'Hardly an intrusion, Inquisitor. The Emperor's work is my own.'

'I am pleased we are of the same mind, Agent Kallus.'

Kallus closed the space between them, bringing himself to parade rest a half-dozen paces from the silken voice that loomed at his own table. She toyed with a datapad in an exaggerated gesture, tossing it aside, dying twilight playing across her alien features.

'I have thoroughly reviewed your record, notably your work on Lasan. Impressive. Most impressive. It speaks highly of your character, of a man willing to do what is necessary to safeguard our Empire.'

She slowly walked the length of the desk, a single finger tracing its surface, her muscles rolling like a cat.

'It is quite obvious to me that my predecessor failed to make proper use of a man of your exceptional talents. That is a mistake I will not see repeated.'

He allowed himself to beam. Let her paw his pride. She could talk. He would listen.

'You are no doubt quite aware of the situation that currently grips Lothal. You and I require solutions, not excuses. As you have noted, this particular rebel cell appears quite averse to violent action. This has earned them the trust and admiration of the people. This is a misconception we must correct; in doing so we will deprive our enemy of a key advantage. To that end I would like you assemble a thorough catalog of all ISB and affiliated security assets on Lothal.'

'Surveillance assets, Inquisitor?'

'Moreso. I require logistical data, equipment inventories, your operational capabilities; I am particularly interested in personnel dossiers. Your field agents, their contacts, those who are competent, those we can consider expendable...ordinarily, this would take some time to analyse. However, I expect a man such as yourself already has this information on file, and would merely need time to compile it?'

Kallus did his best to suppress a smile, without complete success. The last Inquisitor was an enigma of a man, one he was too often forced to simply keep up with, and clean up after. This one, however, was a creature of his own mind. She spoke his own language, and had already given him a lovely gift. He hadn't the chance to run black operations in a very long time.

She didn't even expect him to answer.

'Excellent. I would like your report on my desk tomorrow morning. I trust this will be of no great inconvenience?'

Kallus gave up hiding his grin.

'On the contrary Inquisitor. It would be my pleasure.'


	3. Of Our Discontent

The hydrospanner clicked, and another conduit came a little bit closer to being as good as new. Well, almost as good. An Outer Rim freighter ran on luck, and alot of sweat-stained, greased smeared love. Of course, a ship was only as good as its captain, she humbly admitted. Well, and a captain was only as good as her crew…heh, and what a crew. Chopper hummed next to her, handling tools and soldering wires. Zeb leaned against the bulkhead, watching her work, calmly sipping a mug of caff. The clicks and clinks of her tools, the barely audible hum of the Ghost's power plant, even Zeb's slurps, all became a song in her head. She let the rhythm of work overtake her, reveling in the satisfaction of the moment.

Until it was profaned by a muted scuffle, a hatch opening, something being thrown at a bulkhead….

_'Di'kutlaa chakaar!'_

…and Sabine, showing off her language skills. This was met with a boyish cackle and what sounded like a raspberry, Ezra bolting out of Sabine's room with the artist on his tail.

'Ezra you bring back that sketchbook or so help me I'll paint you black and blue!'

She was waving what looked like a pillowcase, which may or may not have had a leather danda ball in it…

Just another idle day on the Ghost. Hera sighed.

'Zeb, could you kindly keep those two from murdering each other?'

Yellow eyes glowered over his caf.

'Why do I always-'

'Zeb…'

'Ugh, _fine_.'

The alien lumbered after, mumbling some choice phrases in Lasat that Hera chose to ignore. She turned back to her work, Chopper trading tools with her again. As she tightened another bolt, she hoped that racket hadn't reached Kanan; the Ghost's interior panels could be rather thin. He was in his cabin…alone with the Togruta who had enlarged their family as of late.

Hera wasn't jealous. Kanan hadn't been in the mood for much of anything, let alone something that would get him whacked with a ratchet. His experience above Mustafar had worn on him, more than he was willing to admit, even to her. He buried it. That's just who he was. The healing he needed was more than physical. Meditation, immersing oneself in the Force, that's what was necessary to heal those scars, and only another Jedi could walk him through that. She trusted Ful…Ahsoka with her life. Hera only regretted the comfort Kanan needed was something she couldn't give.

Her train of thought was shattered again when a juvenile mess of pink and blue came tearing back through the corridor, a roaring Lasat in tow. Hera had just enough time to press herself against the bulkhead before the train of destruction sped past, disappearing through the wardroom hatch. What followed was an orchestra of flying objects, pulled hair, and multilingual obscenities. What would have been a sigh from Hera slipped out as something far more undignified. The spanner slipped from her hand in disgust, the chaotic roar being matched with the very ominous rhythm of engineer's boots stomping along the corridor deck. An astromech's sadistic chuckle echoed behind.

What she saw next was the last straw. Eating utensils and ration packs were scattered across the deck, caff dripped on the dejerik board. A waffle was stuck on the overhead. Amidst it all tumbled a mess of colour and chaos that had rapidly devolved into an old-fashioned floor scrap. Hera breathed.

'That's_ ENOUGH_!'

The storm suddenly ceased. The three delinquents, frozen mid-blow, locked eyes on this mother-goddess who was at the moment without an ounce of pity.

'You three. Loading bay. _Now_.'

They cringed.


	4. Rudely Stamped

'Did we have to take the speeder? We still have the swoops-'

'Oh no, I am not getting on Hera's bad side again, which means I'm not letting you two out of my sight.'

Sabine was starting to question letting Ezra ride shotgun. She should have known he would have spent the whole ride egging Zeb on. Those two were like binary stars. Everything around them got burned. At least she wasn't crammed next to the Lasat, or worse, hip to hip with puppy-eyes - okay, so back seat wasn't such a bad choice after all.

'_We_ wouldn't be on Hera's bad side if you hadn't-'

'_Not. A. Word. Kid._'

'Fine.'

'Look, let's just focus on the job, eh? You still got that list she gave you?'

'Think you can follow it?'

'Yeah I can follow it, _without_ trying to steal a piece of fruit and bringing down half the city garrison on our heads!

'_You_ stole the _TIE fighter_.'

'Which let us save Kanan, not to mention you. Now read it back to me.'

'Okay, okay, I'll go slowly. I know you have trouble with big words...'

'I don't even have to stop this thing to punt _your scrawny little_-'

Sabine did her best not to throw up her arms in disgust. She punched up the audio feed in her helmet, hoping to drown out her..whatever they were. Her helmet began to pulse. It was an Echani combat dance, remixed electronically. Her gaze drifted off to the bleak horizon, trying to let her frustration just drift away...

It wasn't enough. Somehow, even the landscape of Lothal grated her. Endless, empty...she keyed the heads up display projected on her visor. She scrolled through a small catalogue of audio, holo, and text files, before settling on one her favourite books: TM31-210, the ISB manual on improvised munitions. She grinned. Call it crude, but rigging up a timed detonator with nothing but some wire, a power cell, and a tin of beans? _That was art._ She bobbed her head to the drums, skimming over the text, focusing on the images. There always seemed to be something she missed, some intricacy left to be learned. She spared a glance back at Ezra and Zeb; their wild gestures hinting their volume hadn't decreased. She turned her mind back to her reading. Only minutes had passed when she had finished; boredom, and _something else_, was gnawing at her like a womp rat.

She idly scrolled through her files, looking for something, _anything_, she could draw on, anything that could stoke some inspiration in her brain. She found an old file she didn't recognise. Another keystroke. The collection of images exploded before her eyes. Her lips parted a little. She recognised them in an instant; the towering reliefs of the Royal Palace in Sundari. They were pieces of the geometric school, surreal, born from the troubled minds that survived Mandalore's last great war. Yet it was ancient myth, not recent history, that loomed on those walls. These were battles thousands of years past, the wars of the Mandalorian Crusades. Blades flashed as triumphant hands held severed heads high, blood flowing on the cold stone. It was all the terrible, horrible impulse of primitive war. Her heart fluttered a little. Savage, dominant, victorious, and somehow...astounding. Awe filled.

Beautiful.

She buried the thought. Beat it, savagely, into her subconscious mind. Those songs were no longer sung. She was a warrior, a fighter, but for a cause. A _higher_ cause. She wasn't a killer. She wasn't like _them_...

The speeder lurched to a halt. She banished the grisly sculptures and brought her audio feed back to external. She immediately regretted it.

'...us together will just make us easier to spot.'

She couldn't beleive they were still arguing. She shut out the trouble in the front seat, looking for trouble around the windbeaten building in front of them. This was their first destination, an abandoned maintenance station just a few clicks beyond the city; their rendezvous point, in case things went bad.

She vaulted out of the speeder, leaving the two bickering behind her. The structure was battered, half overgrown with plains grass. Corrosion speckled its once bright prefab surfaces, contrasting with sloppy, obscene graffiti. She reached for her paint sprayer, then thought better of it. The glass front had been shattered, the shards surrounding neglected husks of stripped machinery and junked droids. Went out of business not long after the Empire moved in, she guessed. This had been someone's life once. Now? Just a husk, as empty as the surrounding plains. The wind whistled, glass crunching beneath her boots.

She scanned the exposed room, eyeballing a row of lockers on the far wall. Second from the right, top row. She crossed the refuse strewn space, brushed off the lockpad, and punched in the code Hera gave her. They had caches like this all over Lothal. Clothes, creds, sliced credentials, blaster packs, ration bars...anything a rebel might need for a quick op, or a quicker getaway. Today they were tapping this valuble resource for one of their more dangerous activities.

Grocery shopping.

She pried open the locker door, withdrawing a pair of old GAR rucksacks. The smell of rust and mildew slipped through her respirator. She caught herself in the small mirror that hung inside, smeared with grime, a crack splitting her image in half. A pair of voids, predator's eyes, gazed back. The eyes of a Night Owl...and the reflections of Zeb and Ezra, trudging up behind her. Still going at it.

'...all I'm saying is _we_ wouldn't be here if _you_ hadn't trissked Hera off.'

'Listen kid-'

That was it. She whirled.

'Look, Hera wants us joined at the hip and out of her lekku? Hera gets what Hera wants.'

She tossed a bag at their feet. It wasn't just Hera's patience that was hanging by a thread.

'Kit up, and remember the plan. If we get stopped, we're offworld merchants. You work for me, and you don't speak Basic. Let me do the talking. Keep your mouths shut and we might just manage a little shopping without frelling things up...'

That came out a little sharper than she'd thought...well tough. They started it. They were the reason she was stuck out here grabbing fruit instead of finishing her work. _They_ were always _messing things up_. Couldn't they spare a little more respect? For her space, for her art, for _her_? She cared about them, sure. They were always there for each other, weren't they? Maybe that was it. Owls hunted solo.

Reluctantly, she pulled off her helmet, stowing it in the threadbare backpack. She replaced it with a tasseled headscarf, a drab nerf wool poncho covering the pastels of her armour. She hated covering it, even if it was too distinctive to wear in broad daylight, especially after Mustafar. Really she was foolish even hanging on to it, but she couldn't bring herself to let the old harness go, any more than she could shed her own skin. It was part of who she was...

'Coming, _boss_?'

Ezra stood waiting in what had been the door, his similar disguise making him look like even more of a street rat than usual. Ugh, did she really look that dull? She dug around in the pack again, pulling a fistfull of trinkets, desperate for anything with some colour. She threw a few trade bangles on her wrists and a necklace heavy with bright beads and animal teeth. Better. She wound the scarf over her face, knotting it in place, and threw the ruck over her shoulders. She checked the mirror one last time.

A very different Sabine Wren stared back at her.


	5. Grim Visag'd War

Sabine was grateful she had that rag tied over her face. The air was heavy with a thousand smells, the rank of animal, sentient being, and speeder fumes. Her body could almost sense the rhythm of thousands of plodding feet, of the shrugs and brushes from indifferent shoulders, of the street musicians, the beasts of burden, the thrum of passing replusorcaft. A city was an assault on the senses, and no matter how many times she walked these crowded streets, it never grew dull. If nothing else, the contrast still stuck with her. For all its clean lines and cosmopolitan aspirations, Capitol City was still a frontier town, a backspace spaceport on a backspace world.

Zeb and Ezra trudged behind her, eyes scanning the rolling sea of life that churned around them. They had already nabbed a few of the more questionable objects on Hera's list from the scroungers that collected on the outskirts, but they all craved fresh food, and that meant the market district. It also meant moving all the closer to the city centre, and getting close to government buildings and upper class housing meant heavier Imperial patrols.

'Zeb, you still have the list?'

'Hmm? Oh yeah...'

He dug the crumpled mess from a pocket, handing it over with a shrug. She tried not to sigh as she unballed it, grateful for Hera's clear, mechanical handwriting. She refreshed it in her memory, matching what was written with what she knew they had. No exotic fruit, thankfully. Her pace slowed, finally coming to a halt as she gave up splitting her attention between the street and the paper. She glanced upward when her eye caught Zeb starting to move off without her. Only then did she realise where they'd stopped as she followed Zeb's gaze to the bright sign over the door, a neon blue mynock flickering indignantly. It used to be just another spacer bar, where tramp freighter jocks came to burn their creds after a haul. Lately it had started to get popular with Sienar test pilots.

'Zeb. no.'

'Bu-'

'No. Drinking. Zeb.'

'Who said anything about a drink? Maybe I just want to have a look.'

'The last time you stepped into a bar to 'have a look' you lost Chopper in a sabbac game. Besides, that's a flyboy joint now. Stormies would be on us in a sixth even without the warrant on our heads.'

'Just 'cause I wanna have a chat with the new customers?'

'You tend to let your fists do the talking.'

She never saw Ezra put a hand to his temple, the wince on his face, the sudden fear in his eyes.

'Sabine...'

'Not now Ezra...'

'Sabine!'

'_What_ Ezra?!'

'_We need to get out of here right-_'

The world roared.

The air was all around her, the ground had lost her feet. Then she found the earth again. Pain. Ringing. She could barely breathe. Her head and guts swam like oil in water, her brain fighting itself for sensation and motor skill, adrenaline pumping. Her limbs returned to her, her breath aching and short. Flush with primal fear, she couldn't move. As her eyes cleared, a glance told her the truth. There was no gaping hole in her chest, no rubble crushing her ribs. Just Ezra.

'Ezra? You alright?'

He groaned,

'Fine...'

She blinked away the dust.

'Off.'

He flopped next to her with a grunt.

She found a twitching blob of purple next to them.

'Zeb?!'

'I'm alright...'

The Lasat pushed himself from the ground, clutching his head with a string of curses.

'What in all the Corellian hells...'

'AP device. Improvised...' she interjected.

She tasted the tang in the air - no, she still wasn't that good yet. But the results didn't require analysis. In twos and threes people stumbled from the entrance of what was the Blue Mynock, the portal spewing smoke into the midday air. They coughed and swore and stumbled, their grimy, blood smeared faces almost more dead than living. A few cried and wailed, the scantily clad bar girls. Others, in Navy black or not, hacked red phlegm and clutched limbs and distended guts as they fell to the earth. As flame licked the building, some pilots set their staggering charges to the ground, and then turned and ran back into the burning bar, calling for comrades or straggling bystanders. Sabine crouched slackjawed. She hated them. But she loved their valour. One pilot in particular, oozing blood himself, set a shattered comrade into the dirt before wiping red filth from his face. Sabine felt a flash of recognition. Was that - from the posters? The parade?

Uh-oh.

She struggled to haul herself to her feet. That was him all right. The 'best starpilot on Lothal'. Rudor might ID them, and he certainly knew Ezra. They needed to make themselves scarce, last cycle. She was about to wave on Zeb and Ezra when the yelling started. It was garbled at first, then grew clearer as its orchestra pushed through the throng.

'Up the Rebellion!' 'Burn the Empire!' 'Death to traitors!'

It was trite, canned, sickening. Sabine knew it for what it was. Idiot fanatics. Obviously the drek who set off the bomb couldn't resist making a show. They whooped and howled like animals, firing blasters in the air. The noise wasn't enough. After a few seconds, the bolts began to leap into the gathered crowd, and the wounded victims sprawled in front of the bar. A pilot missing half an arm fell in front of her, a gaping, smoking hole in his chest. That was it. Everything went red.

_Kyr'amur_. _KYR'AMUR._ The drums thrummed.

Weapons cleared leather. She didn't need her helmet's HUD to pick her targets. Triggers depressed, and their baying turned to screaming. One, two, three...two bolts apiece in the chest, ribs splayed and organs frying as the butchers fell into the dust. Their comrades spat vicious oaths and turned to heel, vanishing into the crowd. A retreating foe wasn't enough for a Mandalorian. Not for Sabine Wren. Not for a _'true'_ rebel. Her legs began to uncoil, springs begging for release, the predator begging for a chase. Begging her to run them down like animals. Something grabbed her arm.

'Sabine.'

She spun, her eyes angry. Ezra's were not. There was the littlest shake of his head; it almost seemed it was more than his grip holding her there. His gaze was like stone. Her breathing slowed. She was suddenly aware how tightly she was gripping her blasters. She tossed a glance back toward the bar, her quarry gone. The blood remained.

'Let's go. Kanan and Hera need to know.'

She slid the pistols back into their holsters, and the three faded into the chaos.


	6. Inductions Dangerous

The chamber was black, empty. The shape that lurked at its center seemed almost overwhelming to the shadows around her. She sought peace in that morbid void, emptiness. It eluded her. There was no peace...and she gained no strength, no power. The Force failed to set her free. It had failed in so many other ways where she was concerned. Yet still, with every private, waking moment, she was here, or another place like it. The incense hung heavy in the air, its musk thick with spice. A simple decadence she allowed herself.

She drifted, without weight, without time. She flowed through and amongst her thoughts even as she tried to release them, felt her feelings churn. Their embrace offered no more freedom than their rejection. It was merely a different kind of cold. She gave up, and turned her brain to the ongoing task at hand, all her grand plans playing and replaying before her. The biological computer hummed away, sifting, filing, organising, laying in its proper place every wrinkle of data.

It was then she stumbled across one of the many little troubles of this planet, a splinter embedded in her mind. A spark in her darkness. The one among the all she had, strangely, not yet quantified. She focused on it alone, pushing its detractors aside. It was warm, bright, yet distant, like a star seen from lightyears away. She drew herself closer. The cold changed, pricking her consciousness, like numbness receding from a limb.

It was a presence she had not felt since...

Something stirred within her. Something old. She stretched outward with her feelings, reaching toward this flickering little light...

The door to her chamber slid open. The dull light beyond it flooded into the room, stalled only by a tall, red hackled silhouette. She lost her grip. The vision faded, receding into the distance of the mind as if it had never been. She sighed, and consciously chose not to chastise this very _useful_ man

'Inquisitor. My apologies for the interruption, however I felt you would take interest in recent developments.'

How polite of him. She breathed, opening her eyes. Cold again.

'Our tree has borne fruit.'

It wasn't a question.

'Indeed. Our little _'cells'_ executed their missions with acceptable synchronicity. We have reports flooding in from Capitol City and every major population centre on Lothal. Casualties currently in the triple digits. Projections are far more grim.'

'So tragic. How is the dear Minister taking the news?'

'She seems somewhere between flustered and distraught at the moment. She is preparing a statement as we speak.'

'I trust her broadcast will be suitably heartrending?'

'The Minister is certainly an emotional orator. Our people in the planetary media will ensure the broadcast is well edited. The population is already beginning to simmer.'

She allowed herself a quiet smile.

'One incident' he continued 'in particular, stood out.'

'Oh?'

'Among the targets hit was The Blue Mynock, a drinking establishment of questionable repute near the market district. Its owner had recently begun doing very well for himself catering to our pilots.'

'How will the causalities effect Sienar Systems' research?'

'They are within acceptable limits, Inquisitor. Notably Baron Rudor was injured in the attack. He will recover.'

'Such misfortune. Ensure he is present when the Minister gives her speech. In fact, ensure he receives a commendation; I'm certain his selfless and heroic nature rose to the occasion.'

That almost drew a smirk from Kallus.

'Have the Minister pin it on him herself, as the Holonet broadcasts to millions. The Empire honours its heroes and its martyrs.'

'Of which we had more than expected. The 'rebels' who attacked The Blue Mynock shot down several of the survivors from the crowd. _Someone_ in the crowd fired back.'

That raised an eyebrow.

'What were the causalities among our 'rebels'?'

'Three. Dead. Of course, their bodes have been taken into custody by the ISB. The...upstanding citizen has not yet been identified.'

'Hmmm...ensure this receives mention by the Minister. In fact, let the Baron publicly thank this anonymous citizen. Offer a reward if they step forward. The people should see the benefits reaped by patriots. Especially those who put their loyalty into action...'

The Inquisitor rose, matching eyes with the towering ISB man.

'It is time we accelerated our plans. Have you the information on my special requisitions?'

'I await only your word, Inquisitor.'

'Excellent. Send for them immediately.'

'As you wish.'

'Oh, and Agent Kallus? One additional matter.'

He hung on her words for a moment, attentive. She spoke.

'Minister Tua is certainly a most admirable servant of the Empire, but I feel we will require another public figure to further our plans, one not officially seated in the Imperial administration on Lothal. A voice for the people you see, sympathetic, idealistic...I'm sure you understand.'

Kallus smirked, the wheels turning in his head.

'I believe I know just the man.'


End file.
